


imagine it, our futures, intertwined

by rosebud_writer



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: F/M, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, POV Richard Papen, Polyamory, Romantic Fluff, Sweet, The Author Regrets Nothing, disaster bi Richard Papen, domestic AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:21:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24384985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosebud_writer/pseuds/rosebud_writer
Summary: The idea was ridiculous, at least at first.Francis and Camilla were going to get married.What to tell? Perhaps the long hours we all spent planning, with Francis worrying about colors and dresses? The heart attack I almost had when they informed me that I would have to give the speech during dinner (“You’ll be our best man!” Francis had said, chuckling as his hands slid over my chest)?I suppose I should tell how we pulled off this elaborate trick.
Relationships: Camilla Macaulay/Richard Papen, Francis Abernathy & Camilla Macaulay, Francis Abernathy/Richard Papen
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	imagine it, our futures, intertwined

It all started out as a joke, the idea of Francis and Camilla getting married. It came to fruition one of those nights where we had all had just a bit too much to drink, complaining about our families like teenagers, passing drinks between the three of us with clumsy hands. We were getting older, the pressures of the world and expectations beginning to build and weigh upon our shoulders. That evening, one of those early September nights with the leaves only just starting to die and swirl in lucid patterns to the ground, had been spent on our apartment porch in the quickly fading warmth. Francis had been lamenting about his grandfather to us, head in Camilla’s lap, his hands gesturing wildly, conducting a symphony, as he went on.

“He won’t stop asking me about when I’ll marry. Talking about how I should bring a lady around for holiday-”

“Why don’t you just marry me?” Camilla said, in what I thought sounded like quite a serious tone, though she let out a delightful throaty laugh when Francis looked up at her. Though they were only joking, I felt a little pang of jealousy run through me. 

“Darling! You’re a genius!” he said, with a glimmer in his eyes that, even in my drunken state, I knew meant trouble. 

“And me?” I said, taking a sip from my drink, “What’ll I do when you two go off and get hitched?”

“Oh, you’ll be there too.” 

“Yes, you can be our house boy!” Francis said, with a laugh. We joined him, our voices mixing into a strange but comforting chorus, I couldn’t tell much else what happened that evening, but I can say that somehow, the concept stayed in the back of our minds till matters turned more serious. 

It was after we had graduated (yes, it was a surprise that we had all made it through, but somehow it happened) that the concept was brought up again, although we were quite content to spend our days in peace together, the pressures from Francis’ and Camilla’s families had become quite a bother. The plan was discussed at length (Would they buy it? Should we go through? I don’t think we have a choice-) and carefully pieced together to play as follows: Francis would bring Camilla with him to Boston for a family holiday, there which he would propose. I was to be involved in the engagement and wedding planning, or at least appear to be, to ward off any lingering suspicion. The ceremonies were to be held in summer, then a honeymoon to France (I would ‘conveniently’ be traveling there as well, for a post-graduation celebration), life afterwards would return as normal; their families properly satisfied and leave us free to do as we please. 

What to tell? Perhaps the long hours we all spent planning, with Francis worrying about colors and dresses? The heart attack I almost had when they informed me that I would have to give the speech during dinner (“You’ll be our best man!” Francis had said, chuckling as his hands slid over my chest)? I suppose I should tell how we set the whole ordeal in motion. 

As the time of our plan waxed closer, Francis dragged me along on a trip upstate. It was only as we were driving along a busy highway, miles away from our apartment, that he informed me we were ring shopping. I had laughed at the look on his face when he told me, I found it quite silly to be sneaking around when Camilla already knew what was going to happen. Francis was quite cross when I told him such. 

“It’s simply no fun if she knows everything,” he said, frowning at the road, “besides, it has to be a little bit of a surprise to be convincing.”

I rolled my eyes, but figured it was best to not say anything more. The rest of the ride was quiet, but not unpleasantly so, we often shared these peaceful moments with an intimate sort of silence. I could tell he was nervous when we went into the store, fidgeting hands, eyes flitting here and there, I nudged his shoulder as we walked inside, he gave me a weak smile. I don’t think I could have felt more fondly toward him than I had then (how wrong I was! What a delightful thing to be wrong about).

The jeweler that helped us was interesting- tall, with broad shoulders and large hands that made me wonder how he was able to handle such a fragile and intricate craft. Francis answered all of his inquiries with elegance, of course, though most of it went over my head (rather willingly as well). We moved from case to case, the man pulling out a ring here and there, though each was met with curt distaste from Francis. He had a funny shake of the head when he was displeased, lips pursed and scrunched as well. Sipping at a glass of something or other they had offered while we looked, I inspected the many rows of gleaming bands with a strange, detached sort of interest, there were lots of bright lights shining and the store was a little too warm. After much too long, I found a chair to wait in. I watched Francis, with his carefully styled hair and smartly pressed suit, as he leaned in close to inspect a particular ring. He looked up suddenly and found me sitting, motioned for me to come over. 

“Now, what do you think of this one?” Francis said, holding the object of interest gingerly between his fingers. 

I looked carefully. It was a pretty little ring, slim golden band with an elegant diamond set in the middle and some tiny gems around the center, a perfect balance between extravagant and ornate. And though I was never one for picking out jewelry (nor do I understand Francis and Camilla’s affinity for it), it reflected our Camilla perfectly. 

“I think it’s lovely, Francis.” I said, though the smile he gave me afterwards was more satisfying than finding the ring. 

We left the shop with a sleek bag which held a fancy little box, the ring glistening inside. This was not the end of our shopping however, Francis insisted on stopping a few other places both to cover our tracks and pick up a new outfit for me. Apparently, I needed a new suit for the event, even though I technically wouldn’t even be present for the proposal. 

“Humor me,” Francis said when I reminded him of the fact (it was only till much after he informed me of the engagement party. The two of them laughed at my disbelief, but it seemed so silly at the time. I still wear that suit sometimes). 

Eventually we did make it home, new suit in hand, plus a various assortment of other trinkets: a golden necklace, dapper tie and pocket square sets, a pair of pretty lace gloves. I don’t think I would be able to carry any more boxes and bags up those damned stairs, but later, as Francis smugly put, Camilla was none the wiser about the little surprise. 

I’m sorry to say that I wasn’t there for the proposal itself, but I had gone through the plan so many times with Francis that it didn’t really matter. I found it both incredibly amusing and sweet that he was so concerned about the whole thing, there was no reason to worry, I even listened to his prepared speech a few nights leading up to the big night. 

We were in Boston for the winter holidays, away from our comfortable little apartment. I was to stay in the hotel during the sanctioned family events, to avoid any chance of running into any of them. The hotel was large, one with an old face and grand interiors: chandeliers in the lobby and red velvet couches. I had a seperate room to check into, just in case, though I did not spend much time there. Really, I’m not sure why most of Francis’ extended relatives were present for this particular holiday season, something about his grandfather getting older and wanting to win favor, but as tedious as it made the trip, it also made our plan much more believable. Why wouldn’t a dashing young man want to propose with all of his family in attendance? 

“Just say your hangover is too bad to go out tonight,” Francis said to me, voice low and breath stolen by my lips. We were in the corner of our hotel suite after a few too many drinks at lunch- Camilla decided to shower, leaving Francis and I to do as we pleased. What had started out as a few playful brushes of the lips quickly escalated into something much more passionate, shirts unbuttoned and arms pinned against the wall. 

“Do you really think she’ll fall for that?” 

“Depends on how good you are at acting,” he said, and a sly grin inched its way across his face, “don’t want a repeat of our college years, do we?” 

If he had said this in any other tone, one might think he’d have been sympathetic, but I knew better (even in school I got notoriously bad hangovers, much to the delight of my classmates, who teased me relentlessly). I made a small noise of protest at his tease, and he dropped it, face suddenly just a little concerned.

“I’m sorry, that was-”

Truly, I didn’t care about his comment, but the opportunity presented was just a little too good to pass up. “Make it up to me?” I muttered, sliding lips along his jaw. The sound of the shower shutting off made us jump, he said something about being quick, but I was too focused on his hot breath against my skin. 

To my suprise, Camilla believed the lie about the hangover, though admittedly it wasn’t entirely fiction. A few hours after drinking at lunch (plus a few cocktails the night before) had left my head throbbing and me feeling a little sick. Francis convinced her to go to dinner without me, I assured them that I would be just fine. I idly watched as they dressed- Francis in an exquisite black overcoat, pearls resting on Camilla’s delicate neck. They looked like they belonged in a painting; immaculate, untouchable, beautiful.

Francis looked at me one last time before they left, his face was a bit somber, nervous even. I smiled at him, hoping it could offer him some sort of vague comfort- he really did worry too much.

They came back much later in the night than I expected, both sporting flushed cheeks and a drunken giddiness in their steps. I had been reading in one of the plush chairs when I realized as much, Camilla sat right in my lap when they entered, golden head resting on my shoulder- she was quite tipsy, eyes glittering and breath sweet on my neck. Francis relaxed into the seat close to mine, pulling his tie loose with his long fingers. 

“Did you know?” Camilla said, when I inquired how the night went, “We’re engaged now, darling.” 

She put a dainty hand on my chest, waving her fingers a little so the light bounced and sparkled off of the ring, it felt like just days ago we had bought that silly thing. I laughed, placed a small kiss to the knuckle right below it, and turned to Francis.

“That thing's been burning a hole in your pocket then, huh?”

“You could say something of the sort- they fell for it too,” he said, winking slyly at me, “my mother was so elated. I thought she was going to cry!”

“Oh, Richard! Her face was so funny when she realized what was going on, I wish you could have seen it!” Camilla chimed in, demonstrating the missing detail by contorting her pretty features into a silly expression.

They told me all the little details: Francis’ hands shaking when he put the ring on Camilla’s finger, the restaurant staff’s reactions, the champagne they had afterward. We must have stayed up until dawn, my eyes burned from too many sleepless nights, though looking back, I can’t say I regretted a single moment of it. 

If we thought Francis’ mother was happy, then his grandfather was overjoyed. I had to stall in the car for what felt like forever while they said goodbye. Though it was still dead winter, the bit of cold sunshine was melting the icicles that clung to some of the house eves; I mindlessly watched as the droplets dropped and rolled down the fragile stems of ice: drip, drip, drip. I must have jumped a bit when the car door finally opened. Francis’ fingers were red from the brief exposure outside, he rubbed them vigorously together after climbing in; Camilla struggled with the long scarf that wound its way round her neck before she joined, her breath sparkling and dancing in the air. 

“Sorry, my dear,” Francis said, when he saw my face- I must have looked more upset than I felt- honestly, I was just bored, “thank you for waiting.”

“Come now, we’d really better go or we’ll never leave!” Camilla said, finally sliding into the open seat, leaning to give me a peck on the cheek. 

The drive back was pleasant, I don’t think I will ever tire of the sight of snow- even with my near death experiences- it coats the landscape in a blanket of desolate integrity. There is no distinguishing where the horizon ends and the sky begins, I lose myself in the alluring white. Francis and Camilla chatted (they could talk for hours on end, everything and nothing all at once- when they’re like this, I tend to just tune it out, for I can hardly keep the years of information straight) while I watched the sun inch its way towards its invisible place of slumber. It was a relief when we finally got to our apartment and it’s disordered warmth. 

I think we were all comforted to be alone again, I was especially grateful to not have to hide away for long hours. We returned to life as usual for just a little while, the only difference was the ring on Camilla’s finger (I cherish those memories of casual lazy mornings; my fingers tracing the smooth curves of their bodies, no urgency to be found. Even now, the early light is my favorite time spent with them). It wasn’t until the engagement party that my jealousy became painfully obvious and the incessant madness truly began. 

That is not to imply that the party was bad, quite the opposite, in fact. It was a wonderful evening; Francis reserved a private room in a fancy restaurant that I can never remember the name of. Plenty of good wine, probably too much of it for me actually- I can’t say I have a clear memory of the event, only flashes and dazzling tastes that are left on my tongue. The soft blue silk of Camilla’s dress (Francis had a matching tie, of course), sweet champagne at the end of the night, greetings from acquaintances all melting together into an indistinguishable face and voice that I will never recognize. 

I don’t know why I drank so much that night, maybe it was the stress of upcoming term papers and such. More likely, though I don’t care to admit it, was that Francis and Camilla were driving me insane. On purpose. Throwing shameless winks my way, his hand lingering at the bottom of Camilla’s exposed back, her smirk when giving Francis a kiss to the cheek. 

How, I asked myself at the bottom of my glass, was I supposed to survive their wedding?

**Author's Note:**

> I really just do what I want, huh.  
> hope it's entertaining.  
> you're welcome.
> 
> \- rose


End file.
